trust
by McMuffin
Summary: Effie's staying with Haymitch and her nightmares aren't getting any better. He realises what he needs to do to help her - to help them. Post-Mockingjay. / What is it about this woman that makes him act in strange ways?


My first Haymitch/Effie fic, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Written for kolms' ficathon at LiveJournal, based on the prompt "The shoes are the first to go, then the dress, the wig, and finally, reluctantly the makeup. And for the first time, he sees her."

* * *

><p><span>Trust<span>

Open curtains, dim electric light, a knife clutched in hand, a half-empty bottle of clear liquid - this is all Haymitch needs to fall asleep. But not tonight. Tonight he is twisting and turning, covering his head with a pillow (only for it to be too dark), attempting to plug his ears with socks. All to block out the whimpers coming from his houseguest across the hall. Eventually it is too much and he clambers out of bed, almost longing for the days when she was perky and probably slept with a smile on her face. Striding across his room, pale moonlight giving him an eerie glow, he wrenches his door open and crosses the hall.

"Effie!" he says, loud enough for her to hear, but not loud enough to scare her. He attempts to open her door - it's locked, just as it has been the last 5 nights and he curses himself for agreeing to have her stay. (He doesn't really know why he agreed, only knows that he's fond of her, and they both need the company right now.)

No response.

He tries again, "Eff! Open up."

She only continues sniffling, but he can hear her moving around in her room. (He's quickly started calling his guest room her room, and doesn't know what to make of it.) She's got nightmares, just like him, just like everybody, and he'll be damned if hers continue to be this bad. His have subdued slightly now that the war's over, but hers are still fresh, she hasn't had the years to get used to them like he has. He knocks on her door - banging on it the first night resulted in screams and the silent treatment the following day - and hopes that maybe she will open up so he can comfort her. He wants to wrap his arms around her, hold her to his warmth until they both feel safe. (Only so that he can get a decent night's sleep, he tells himself.) Leaning against her door, he suppresses a yawn and tries not to fall over from exhaustion. It's tempting to yell at her, but that doesn't feel right after what she's - what they've been through.

"Look, Princess, I'm trying to get some sleep here," he begins in a soft tone, rubbing his temples, sick of this routine, "So either let me in or shut up."

For a moment it's silent in her room until he hears her voice and he realises she too must be pressed against the door.

"I don't know how to be quiet," she mumbles and his face softens. He wishes there wasn't a door between them.

"Then let me in," says Haymitch, his hand finding the doorknob again.

"I can't..." Her voice hitches. (It's tearing him apart to hear her like this every night, he can't stand to hear her so broken.)

"Why not?"

"Because... I'm not wearing the proper attire," she mumbles, and he tries to imagine what she must look like without it all, finds that he can't. (He's never seen her sans makeup, wig and fashionable clothes, and wishes he had.)

"Fuck that, Effie. You can't sleep, I can't sleep, just let me in and see if I can fucking help!" he snarls, fed up with her excuses.

"No, Haymitch!" she shouts and he has to remove his head from the door at her volume.

"Fine. At least shut the hell up so I can sleep!" he retorts, turning back towards his room.

"Fuck you!" she hisses just loud enough for him to hear through the wooden barrier. Her clipped accent makes the obscenity sound strange; or maybe it's just strange because it's the first time he's ever heard her swear. Whichever the reason, he smirks and closes his door, thinking that even if he doesn't get any sleep tonight, he's heard a rare thing.

Her cries resume minutes later and he wonders if she regrets not letting him in.

In the morning Effie's awake before him, forcing a smile onto her face as she makes pancakes for breakfast, dishes them out between the two. He sips on his orange juice (only orange juice, he no longer drinks in the mornings thanks to her) and observes her. Her movements are always careful around the kitchen like she's afraid one of the knives or a hot frying pan will hurt her. For the most part she ignores him, except for when they discuss the weather, their plans for the day, how stupid her blue wig looks. That's as far as their banter goes these days - _your wig is stupid, your hair is stupid_- any more starts her crying. He hates this fragile woman she's become, hates that she hides behind her image, hates that he can't tease her like he loves to. He slams his fist down on the table in aggravation, expects her to make a remark along the lines of "that is mahogany!" but instead she jumps and looks at him with scared eyes.

"Damn it, Effie!" he almost shouts. "I'm going for a walk."

He doesn't turn around when her sobs start, because he'll only hug her if he does, and he needs to get some space so he can figure out how to fix things - fix them.

He returns in the evening, having bought some lunch from The Hob with the change in his pocket, and finds Effie sitting at his kitchen table sipping on a spoonful of soup. If it wasn't for the food, he'd think she hadn't moved all day.

"You're back," she comments, watching as he strides towards her, "What are you-"

He grabs her, albeit gently, and picks her up from the chair. Her spoon clatters into her bowl and she shrieks - sounding almost fearful.

"Trust me, Princess, this is what you need," says Haymitch, pushing her towards the stairs. She totters up them in sky-high heels, a million protests leaving her lips. He leads her into her room, his arm around her waist, and closes the door behind him.

"Haymitch, what is going on?" Effie demands, and for a moment it's like she's back to her old self - her hands on her hips, lips pursed in annoyance.

"I've realised what you need, Eff, you need to trust me," he says evenly, watching as her eyebrows crease, and he wonders what her eyes look like without all the colourful powder surrounding them.

"I do trust you," she admits, they have known each other for more than five years after all.

"Not enough," he murmurs, and wonders if this is what it's like to be a nice guy. "You won't let me see you without all of that crap - without that cover!"

"Well that..." she starts, appears to be forming an excuse, "That is because I look bad without it. I don't allow anyone to see me without me looking fashionable."

"That's bullshit, Princess. It used to be about fashion but now it's just another fucking way for you to hide!" Haymitch hisses, his fists clenched. "I'm sick of it! You can't go on living in fear - neither can I, I've realised that now."

Effie bites her lip, her defiant exterior crumbling, and speaks without meeting his eyes. "I don't know how to not be afraid."

"Start by showing me what you really look like... Please." It's the first time he's used that word to her, and it seems to have worked because she sticks an arm out, balancing against him as she removes one shoe, then the other. He watches, suppressing a smirk as she ends up shorter than his shoulders.

"Now what?" she murmurs and he reaches for her wig, but her hands shoot up to hold it in place, shaking her head.

"Your dress?" he asks softly, catching her eye to show that he doesn't mean anything sleazy by it and he's shocked when he realises that's the truth. (What is it about this woman that makes him act in strange ways?)

Effie reaches behind her, unzipping the ruffled electric blue number she's wearing, and wiggles her way out of it. Haymitch swallows, suppresses stray thoughts about her in her black silk underwear - this is meant to be about trust! She folds her arms over her middle, and he smiles softly, reaches forward and uncrosses them.

"May I remove your wig, Princess?" he asks, never letting his eyes drop below hers, the next phrase slipping out. "I've always wanted to know what your real hair looks like."

The corners of her mouth twitch and she nods slightly, her gaze once again falling to the floor. He tilts her chin up so she's looking at him as he reaches to remove the ghastly wig. Her blonde tresses fall out from underneath, and he can't help but run his fingers through them, smiling as he does.

"I like this hair much better - it's not stupid."

"It's stupid in The Capitol," she whispers, still staring intensely at him.

"Not here it isn't... Now for your makeup."

She shakes her head and runs her teeth over her lip, "I want to see what you look like underneath your horrible clothes."

Haymitch would refuse but there's a hint of a smirk on her face - something he hasn't seen since before she was taken - and he can't refuse. He knows this is fast becoming more than what he planned, but his heart is pounding fast and he doesn't want it to end. He removes his shoes, socks, vest, shirt and pants quickly, wanting to get this part over and done with - because a woman hasn't seen him like this in years, and he's feeling a little self conscious like she is.

Effie smiles softly, but her face is still hidden under that garish mask. She doesn't say anything, and he hopes that simply means she's embarrassed, rather than repulsed - he'd hate for it to be the latter. He's not overweight, but he's not fit either. A few moments later she turns and goes into her bathroom, the look she sends him tells him to stay put.

Haymitch listens to the sound of running water, of a bottle being opened, of her drying her face, and then she's in front of him again. She's back to staring at the clean floor, a contrast to the dusty floor of his room, and he steps forward to once again tilt her chin up. Her skin is soft to touch, white powder doesn't stick on his thumb when he removes it to brush over her cheekbones, her nose, her jaw. He realises he's smiling as he sees her, finally, as herself. She's beautiful, and he cannot fathom why she would want to cover any of this up. Insecure eyes look up at him, and impulsively he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to her lips.

"You're beautiful, Princess," he tells her, "Beautiful."

Effie breaks out into a wide smile - a genuine one - and stands on tiptoes to kiss him again. "Thank you, Haymitch..."

Smiling back at her he thinks that maybe they can actually get better, help each other mend. And after a night where they both sleep nightmare-free, her body pressed into his, their fingers intertwined, he knows that they'll recover from their broken pasts.


End file.
